


we used to call them tragedies

by notveryhandy



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Abuse, Other, Roleswap AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: Imagine if the Doctor was the Master and the Master was the Doctor, sort of, maybe. This is what could happen if it was.
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler, The Doctor/The Master
Kudos: 12





	1. Memoirs of pain

**Author's Note:**

> Note that the Doctor is called the Master, and vice versa.

_When I first met him, he seemed nice enough. Bit antisocial, kinda cynical and pretty sarcastic, but not cruel. He looked like he was struggling or something, but - well. It got bad pretty quickly. Maybe it would help if I explained, though. Just saying he’s an arsehole doesn’t really tell you much. I’ll start with the holograms, then._

* * *

The Master pulled his leather jacket on tighter. “It’s bloody cold in here,” he grumbled. And it was, even for a Time Lord. What was wrong with her this time? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hologram flicker on. The Tardis was clearly quite annoyed, then.

He walked over to the hologram, and it turned to face him. An incorporeal shape, slowly condensing into a body. Probably the Doctor about to go on a long rant about morals again. Like that mattered after the Time War.

And indeed it was. The Doctor, hanging in the air, looking at him in an accusatory fashion.

“Hello, my dear,” he said. Stupid Tardis. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

* * *

_He talked to that thing - that man - all the time. No idea who they were, what they meant to the Master. Not the exact details, at least. He seemed like he missed them, though. Every time he cane away looking like he’d been stabbed. Spent more and more time alone, ignoring me. Left me wandering the corridors, nowhere to go. After what happened... I miss him, even though he turned out to be pretty nasty. He wasn’t as bad as the next one. No way._

* * *

“Master.”

The Doctor nodded at him briefly, and then drifted over to the middle of the room. “You’ve redecorated, I see.”

He grinned. “And I guess you don’t like it.”

“No, not really. It’s a little, ah, bloodstained for me. Maybe if you took the skeletons off the walls?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “And whilst I’m at it, I’ll go become a shining hero and save some damsels in distress.”

He bowed to the Doctor in a mocking fashion. “Got anything actually interesting to say to me?”

The Doctor’s form flickered from the old, bearded man he’d been talking to to a younger, more familiar man in a leather jacket similar to the Master’s. He grinned sharply.

“Now this is better,” he said. “Still not a fan of the accent, though.”

* * *

_I guess I loved him, at least before things got bad. But I dunno. I was younger, I was naïve. And though I hate to admit it, I was probably a bit stupid. Now, with the Doctor... well, things are better, aren’t they? Not that great. But better. And anywhere's better than the Master when he gets angry. God, it’s so obvious in hindsight. There were so many signs. The isolation, the neglect, the fury. I should have got out earlier. I’m alive, at least. I consider myself lucky._

_I wonder how many other victims he has._

* * *

“I might get a trench coat. What d’you think about that? Or maybe a cutlass and an eyepatch. Is that a bit showy? Huh, maybe I should get a scarf. Oh, how about a Christmas jumper? Is it Christmas where you ar-”

The Master cut him off swiftly before he went on a rant about the wonders of Earth. Again.

"Theres no need to look at me like that,” he said. “You like Earth really.”

“No, I fucking don’t,” he hissed. “And if you _ever_ suggest that again, I’ll hunt you down and burn your face off.”

“Bit grumpy, aren’t we?” the Doctor asked lightly.

“Oh, sod off.”

* * *

_He was like a chameleon, he really was. Reminds me of the Chameleon Arch, and the Doctor, and getting out of there. But no, listen - around other people, he stopped being himself. Except the Doctor. Pretty sure that's the only time he was actually honest._

_No idea what's between them, but they sure do know each other. Not sure I want to know, either. The Doctor won’t really talk about it._

* * *

“You know, this Tardis of yours is in terrible condition.”

“Your heap of junk is hardly any better, my dear Doctor,” he snapped back. “And at least I have a fashion sense.”

The Doctor broke up again, image fracturing. When he settled again, he was in an even younger body, one the Master personally thought would have been better _without_ the terrible hat, but what did he know? And a very good body for sneering, a talent which had gone mostly unused until he annoyed the Doctor. Good times.

“Oh, you. Good to know you dropped that beard,” he said. “I mean really, what were you thinking?”

The Master shrugged. 

“And what is that hideous music playing in the background?” he said.

Really, there was no pleasing the Doctor.

* * *

_After he regenerated, something just -_

_Snapped. Something changed, maybe his entire body burning up was what did the trick. Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. He got violent, he got nasty. I’ve still got several scars. Hurt himself, too, when he got angry. He’d hit me, hit himself, slam the Tardis. And god knows what happened to Jack._

_I hope he’s okay. After Bad Wolf and everything, he ended up immortal. At least, that’s what the Doctor said. But I’m pretty sure he lies to me as well._

* * *

“Oh, it’s the Beatles, isn’t it?” the Doctor realised.

“Finally got through your thick skull, did it?” the Master said. Insulting the Doctor was both slightly unfortunate and incredibly amusing. Habit, too. Life would be dull without their conversations.

He wondered if the Doctor was alright, at the end of the universe, human. Someday he’d go back and get the Doctor, but for now the universe was safer without the mess that had crawled out of the Time War, begging for death. Oh, he’d made sure the Doctor got away...

But it still haunted him at night, what might have happened if the Doctor had escaped and been able to damage reality as he had done in the Time War.

“I never did get why you disliked the Beatles,” the Master said, after a long pause.

“An Auton strangled my first self. Which wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn’t trying to imitate John Lennon,” he said.

“Oh. And by the way, whilst we’re here, can you _please_ take off that godforsaken top hat?”

“Fine, but I’ll have to switch regeneration. This is built into my hologram.”

“Do I look like I care?” the Master asked as the Doctor’s image snapped into a different man.

“...No, not particularly,” the Doctor said. Somehow, though he was merely a bunch of pixels forced into a person, he looked sheepish.

“I have stuff to do.”

The Doctor vanished.

“Oh, look at you, leaving me again! You know, sometimes I hate you.”

He was talking to thin air, though. Like always.


	2. Did you say something?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five really isn’t that nice.

Adric walked into the library, intent on finding some maths textbooks. The Tardis apparently disagreed; every time he looked at the bookcases the organisation system changed, and every time he picked up a book, thinking he had finally found what he was looking for, the book would have nothing inside it or be written in a language, or even simply be the _wrong book._ What was _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ doing inside a book about thermodynamics, anyway?

Even stranger were the odd shelves with non-library-related items on them. Random things, like an hourglass covered in strange, swirling words, or a chalice made of not-quite-glass, both fluid and static at the same time. Perhaps the oddest was the small collection of - well, Adric wasn’t entirely sure _what_ they were. They looked like miniature people.

The Doctor wandered in, and Adric, curious about the... dolls? Well, whatever they were, he tapped the Doctor on the shoulder, and said quietly, “Doctor, what are those models on the shelf?”

The Doctor turned around in alarm. “What - oh, sorry, Adric. You wanted to know about the...”

“The models. You know, the human-looking dolls.” He picked one up, just in case the Doctor had missed his point.

The Doctor looked at him oddly. He paused for a moment, then spoke again. “Oh, Adric. How sweet of you to think that.”

Adric shivered. Something was wrong, something was... different? The Doctor stood there as he had earlier, except now his posture was sharper, his movements slicker, his eyes just a little too cold. “What do you mean?”

“You humans,” the Doctor murmured, “you all think the best of me.” He picked up one of the figurines, still smiling unnervingly. “This is not a doll, Adric.”

“Then... what is it?” In all honesty, Adric wasn’t sure he wanted to know anymore, but the Doctor continued on calmly.

“You know what a TCE is, I am sure?” Adric nodded. Who didn’t? A deadly weapon designed to kill by shrinking the target, quick but excruciating. “These are some of my victims.”

He smiled kindly, as if they were having a nice conversation about the weather and not discussing dead relics. Adric dropped the corpse, barely hearing it hit the floor, too distracted by the Doctor’s strange behaviour.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. “But why do you need to know? Run along, there’s a good boy. You don’t need to bring this up again. In fact, as far as we’re concerned, no-one _ever_ needs to find out about this little chat. Listen to your Master, if you know what’s good for you.”

Adric hurried out the room anxiously, feeling the Doctor’s gaze bore a hole into him. Any thoughts of maths textbooks were swiftly forgotten.


	3. Fallen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara and Whittaker!Master meet on Gallifrey.

“Nice to see _you_ again,” the Master leered. “Finally got over the whole Trap Street incident, have you?”

Clara looked around her. “So this is the great Gallifrey, raiser of civilisations and toppler of empires. Tell me, did you enjoy the genocide?”

The Master gave her a childish grin. She was far younger in this body, or at least it seemed so in comparison to her older counterparts. A lot of them. “Of course I did, little Clara.”

But anger, shame, pain, all flashed over her face. Only for an instant, of course, but -

It was there. So the Doctor had been right, if only a little bit. There _was_ still a spark of goodness there. It had been hard to tell from her harsh past regenerations, but this one, no, it was clear that she cared.

Not much, of course. Clara stepped forwards to confront the Master. “You know, I’m partial to the occasional murder myself. So many people, though. It seems a little...”

“Melodramatic?”

“Tasteless,” Clara said. “This new you is rather impulsive.”

“So what if I am?” She lunged forwards, pinning Clara against the wall. “Shut it, _girl._ Your friends aren’t here anymore.”

Clara smirked. “I’m immortal.”

“I doubt you want me to test that. Besides, you’re not immortal. You _will_ die eventually.”

Clara looked around her. “This isn’t really the you I knew. In the past, you wouldn’t have been so blindly destructive.” 

“You think so, huh?” the Master asked, her grip on Clara lessening. Though still angry, she was backing down. The surge of adrenaline she’d felt cooled down into apathetic boredom. 

“Well, I think I’ll leave now,” Clara muttered. She ducked under the Master and ran for her Tardis, not looking back.

“She’s _good_ ,” the Master said, more to herself than anything else. “Now there’s a shocker.”


	4. a tragedy no longer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crispy is introduced. As is Four.

There is nothing much happening, at least inside his head. Just ramblings and musings. Morality and mortality are much the same as sick and stick; it’s merely a question of a misplaced t. Morality makes you sick, mortality makes you a stick - no, that can’t be right. The Master, too, looms over him; a threat he can hardly believe is dangerous.

He wants to think of safety, of love, of friendships and trust, but all that comes to mind is a cold laugh and bright blue eyes. Eyes which carry hatred and anger and only the barest hint of the Theta-that-was.

He intensely dislikes the Master-that-is.

* * *

He’d say _How could you?_ but betrayal is just another Thursday for them. He’d ask _Why would you even consider this?_ and he knows the inevitable answer, an answer both of them can give but neither wants to. The Daleks have no place in this equation; nobody here is needed but a boy called his friend, one long since abandoned.

Everything is gone. This is an empty place, this is a lie. Everything is still here, and this is the truth; honesty cuts, but dishonesty is corrosive.

He thinks he’d rather be dissolving than shredded, though neither is happening. No, he’s being torched.

* * *

Somewhere, it occurs to him that the Master is laughing, though everyone else is frozen. There is nought to do but burn, burn, burn; maybe this deathly fire will melt the silence of the living. Blood is thicker than water, wouldn't you show mercy to your own?

The answer is a resounding _n_ _o._ Not, of course, that he was stupid enough to ask.

Nobody is that stupid.

* * *

The Master is gone. He does not care. Gloves, he thinks; he needs gloves.

And a mask. Long sleeves, long trousers. No flesh needs to be seen. Not of this withered, burnt husk, something out of a nightmare or a horror movie.

Funny, he always thought it was the Master who was a monster.

* * *

The Master laughs. The Master _always_ laughs. He would whisper, would beg for his life if he weren’t so certain that he’s doomed anyway. It occurs, briefly, that this is a ploy; that this is a prank.

A joke.

But then the Master is far too close, murmuring nothings into his ear. They could be death threats, they could be confessions, they could be the kind of secrets only the shadiest people know.

They could be more broken promises, more empty hopes. The worst kind of truthfulness is the one you always used to mean, but can’t, won’t, shan’t.

And then it becomes clear. The Master is saying something. “We used to call them tragedies,” he hisses.

“Now, we call them life.”


	5. Everybody lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just this once. Someone’s feeling generous. And no, it’s not Nine.

The Master fires a warning shot. Straight over the man’s head, embedding itself in the plaster behind him. It’s amusing, the fear on his face, and the sudden knowledge that this is no longer a joke.

“I won't hurt you, you know. There’s no need for me to shoot you, as long as you do what I say. But if you disobey me...”

He trails off, and points the gun (tasteless, but effective) at the man’s head again. “You know I would, Matthew Woodworth.”

“H-how do you know my name?” Woodworth stutters. “Who are you?”

He laughs. “Oh, pick a name. It doesn’t really matter anymore. I am your Master now.”

Woodworth scampers, and the Master points the gun at him again. “I’m sorry, you seem to be under the impression that you can just _leave._ Tell me, how would your friends feel if they saw your body tomorrow? Listen, you fool.”

Woodworth nods, and returned to the centre of the room. “So what do you want me to do?”

“Businessmen, you never think of anything but deals. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want a job done.”

“What job?”

“Ah, I’ll tell you later. But it seems we are getting along now, yes?”

Another nod. The Master beams. “Excellent. Nobody will be harmed if you do what I say, understand?”

“Yes, um...”

“Master.”

“Yes, Master.”

Perfect. “Just this once, nobody need die. But be warned: if you break your promise, if you do not perform what I asked you to do, well. There will be consequences.”

Woodworth swallowed.

“Now. We have work to do.”


	6. Absence, solved with biscuits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is as simple as you think. Except, you know, when it is.

“So what’s the complex scheme this time? The elaborate trap? The overthought and underprepared plot which will inevitably fail?” the Doctor asked.

“Nothing,” he said irritably, “I just want a drink.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“We’ll, you know what? I’m not fucking lying this time. You should try it,” the Master hissed.

The Doctor tilted her head. “Why so irritable? I’m only joking.”

“Yeah, and doing a damn good job of showing me that, aren’t you?” he hissed, stomping off into the shop. He wrenched a bottle of alcohol off a shelf in an unnecessarily aggressive motion, stuffed it into his jacket, and headed for the counter.

“Are you going to steal that?” the Doctor called. “Because if you do, you know I’ll have to stop you-”

The Master slammed down his purchase in front of the cashier, bought the alcohol and left. Bizarrely, she found herself annoyed. Nothing was going on, nobody was dying, and yet...

She missed their fights. It was far less fun when the other person was gone. _Absence makes the heart(s) grow fonder,_ she mused, and picked up a packet of biscuits on the way out.

It could never hurt to have enough biscuits.


	7. Care for some gay tension?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that one.

“Fancy a sword fight?” the Master asked casually. “ _Rassilon,_ this place is dull.”

“Boring you? Quite the achievement, I’m sure.”

The Master hid a smile. “Would you care for match?”

“Of course, my dear,” the Doctor said.

Odd. Usually any attempt to do anything was met with bitter disagreements, long fights, and eventually an unsatisfying compromise neither of them like.

Then again, that had mostly been the Academy. This was not Gallifrey; there was no Borusa staring down their throats, ready to give out detention the moment they opened their mouths. The Brigadier was a poor replacement for him - he didn’t even have a dungeon!

Well, there was a prison. But that hardly had the same... oh, what was that word? Ah, yes. _Flair._

With an unnecessarily pompous flourish, he pulled out a fencing sword. “Prepare to lose, Doctor.”

“You truly think I would give in so easily?” The Doctor lunged forwards, nearly slicing his jacket.

“Of course not.” He dodged, and struck the Doctor’s blade, metal ringing on metal. “You’re a hopeless and stubborn fool who wouldn’t give up if a Dalek were about to shoot you.”

“Thank you!” the Doctor exclaimed, and nearly cut his suit. Again. If these clothes actually _did_ get damaged, there would be hell to pay.

The Master span around, pinning the Doctor against the wall. “Beaten so easily, old friend? Perhaps you need to touch up on your defense.”

The Doctor breathed shallowly, staring at the blade lightly touching his chest. “How do you know I am not merely indulging you?”

He laughed. “We both know your ego prevents that possibility. Now, I believe I won.”

“Curses, foiled again,” the Doctor said lightly. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“Of course.”

And everyone lived happily ever after, at least until the next victim of the Master’s plans turned up on UNIT’s doorstep.


	8. Not just any old horror movie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bored? Make an empire.

There was a young man on the throne, lounging around. His face was framed with hair so riotous that the only rebellion around was his curls, blonde hair running away from his face. Though he wore the beautiful clothes typical to any noble, he sat there less with the pride of an aristocrat, and more with the childish arrogance of a schoolboy who hadn’t yet learnt his lesson.

Given Gallifreyan ageing, he might as well have been a teenager. Pulling a knife out of his robes, he grinned like a cat and licked it carelessly. There was nobody in the room to see what he was doing, and building an intergalactic empire was proving surprisingly easy. All was well, at least until somebody knocked on the great wooden doors which served as an entrance.

For now. At some point, he’d have to do the place up. “Enter!” he yelled, and the door creaked open. Apparently it also needed some oiling; he was aiming for impressive castle, not cheap horror movie.

The guest was hard to see in the shadows, maybe gothic was the wrong atmosphere. How about... no, he couldn’t think of anything. “Step into the light,” he said. “I want to see who you are.”

Recognition, alarm, horror all flashed through the stranger’s eyes; he felt a sudden surge of familiarity, and shock. “What are you doing here?”

They took down their hood. “Trying to find you, Theta.”

He glared. “Who told you I was Theta? That’s not my name.”

“Really? And what foolish moniker are you using now?”

“Consider me your Master.”

His friend laughed. “Of course, of course. Call me the Doctor then.”

“Are you mocking me?” the Master snapped. “Because if you are, I have a very nice dungeon available-”

“Sh, I’m not mocking you. Well, mostly. But really... what kind of name is _the Master?_ ”

“A perfectly decent one, Kos.”

The old name was jarring. “Well, if we’re still doing nicknames, then explain what’s going on here, _Theta._ ” 

“Oh, stop being so naïve, old friend. You know exactly what’s going on here.”

Dawning horror washed over his face. “Oh. You’re, you’re... no, Theta! You can’t! That’s - that’s-”

The Master pressed a finger to his lips. “Hush now, my Doctor. There’s no need to make this any more than it is.”

“It wasn’t anything in the first place.”

Though the Master didn’t know which _it_ they were talking about, he didn’t like this conversation. The Doctor, however, turned away before he could open his mouth, and strode out as fast as he could.

He sat back on the throne, and tried not to look too crestfallen. The door shut with a loud clang, leaving the Master in an empty room.

 _No need to make this anything more than it is,_ he thought to himself bitterly.

 _Or maybe,_ the voice which always said the worst things hissed, _it was never anything at all._


	9. Keep me on the shelf

“So that’s it? You’re going to keep me? I’m not a toy.”

“I never said you were,” says the Doctor, and bites back countless pointless, acidic remarks. It would be fun-

But it would get her nowhere. Nowhere at all. The Master sits in the middle of the room, perfectly still. He hasn’t been this silent and unmoving since-

Since Clara, but he doesn’t remember that, does he? It’s in his vacant eyes and slightly off expression, the look that says he does not know quite who he is, where he is.

It hurts in a way she hadn’t felt in a long while. Like being skewered on one of her old swords, because seeing the Master _vulnerable_ is scary and impossible andy eaves her full of a sickening, keening hope. 

But then she looks again, and he is not going anywhere near her, and do they lose something when they die? There’s a piece of him missing. He’s reckless. Angry. Had not flinched at the idea of death, for good.

And that is wrong. That is not how the universe works. They’re going to be here for so long and yet they can barely go near each other, can they?

The Doctor leaves, goes to her office.

The Master likes that. He talks to the silence. He talks and then it devolves into ranting and then into screaming and feels like he’s torn out both his hearts. “Look at this, Doctor. Is it funny? You get to watch me. Study me. I’m your pet monkey now, like you’ve always wanted.”

Nothing, of course. “Is it funny? Is it? Keeping me here on the shelf because I’m a toy and now you can show me off like the shiny little trophy I am. Well I’m sorry, but I’m rusted and tarnished. Really should have seen that coming, eh?”

The silence doesn’t respond.

He doesn’t want to know what the Doctor would say.


	10. Kiss me, kill me - no, wait, don’t

The Master grinned. “So, you’re young again too?”

He shrugged. “More or less, y’know.” 

He’s dizzy, and really not focusing right now. He’ll probably walk into a wall if he doesn't sit down, but all he can manage is staring weakly at the Time Lord in front of him, and memorise the Master’s features. 

Bright brown eyes. Crazy ones, probably; dark, long hair which doesn’t look as if it’s heard of being washed. He is skinny, lanky, and so young - but that in itself is unnerving. The young ones tend to be the most ruthless ones.

He knows that, remembers the one with the curls who smiled like he killed, and the youngest - seemingly - of them all, who’d sooner shoot himself through the hearts than talk, or sit down and stop running.

Martha is staring. Jack is staring. He should move away from the Master.

He doesn’t, and now the Master is holding a knife to his throat. He’s still dizzy from regeneration, does not fit into this body. He wears it like you might wear a too-large jumper; it bends in all the wrong places, and won’t quite obey him.

“I am the Master.” Curling fingers at the corner of his vision. “And you, my dear...” Is the hissing on the s sounds really necessary? “...will obey me.”

Then Jack is in the way and throwing him his vortex manipulator, and Martha is grabbing him by the wrist, and all too soon they are gone.

The Master, too, is gone.

What was going on again?


	11. Chapter 11

Amnesia _hurts._ Nobody ever mentioned that. And it’s not the fun kind of pain. It’s stinging headaches, painful gaps, gasping for breath with the ache of loss, screaming nightmares of burning worlds in the dead of night.

No doubt UNIT thinks he’s just being odd again. That happens. It’s easy to pass off the sudden absences of awareness, of personality, as obliviousness. It’s not so easy to pass off doubling over in the middle of the room, or burying his head in his hands for hours on end.

The headaches won’t go away, and he just _can’t_ anymore. Can’t take it, can’t fake it.

Somebody is going to notice, and that would be embarrassing. And somebody does.

“Master.”

The voice is quiet, but instantly recognisable. He’s no fool. “You?”

Although he’s gripping the desk far too tightly, there is no need for anyone to see this. Least of all the _Doctor,_ pretty little idiot that he is. 

The Doctor is stubborn and the Doctor cares, and isn’t that predictable? So painfully easy to guess. He’d be laughing if not for the sharp sting of amnesia.

“Master, I know.”

Isn’t it fun, lying? Lying, lying, so much funnier than the truth.

“Master, look at me.” So persistent, he can feel himself giving up.

The childish part of his brain says that is not a weakness. The cynical part says this is a trap.

There are always traps.

“It’s alright.” It’s not. “I’m here.” Not for long, not if he continues this way. “Relax, please. Stop hiding away.”

Haha no. “I’ll leave, then.”

He nods. Silent.

“But first you’re coming with me.”

There is the Doctor, close in a way nobody else can be.

Maybe. Just this once.

And then a blinding flash of pain, the grey fog of nothingness, and if he gives in for a moment, what does it matter?

Nobody with half a brain is ever going to talk to him about it, are they?

Yes, that's a threat.


End file.
